


Day 4: Hands

by justeruriforever



Series: Eruri Week 2018 [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Affection, Character Death, Eruri Week, Eruri Week 2018, Falling In Love, Gore, M/M, Military strategy, Minor Character Death, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan References, Violence, Weapons, implied prostitution, loss of limb, survey corps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-13 03:44:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16009583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justeruriforever/pseuds/justeruriforever
Summary: A story of hands, from the perspective of both Levi and Erwin - both before and after they meet.  Prompted by Eruri Week 2018 (day 4).Part 1: Levi (childhood)Part 2: Erwin (childhood)Part 3: Eruri (ACWNR, and beyond)NB: ratings, warnings and tags may change.





	1. Hands (Part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is a little late for Eruri Week 2018. It's been in my head for a while, I've finally had some chance to type up my ideas.
> 
> I may make some additions to each chapter, after they've initially been uploaded, so please keep checking back.

******

**Hands (Part 1)**

**Levi**

 

_“The forming of a person’s character lies in their own hands”_

**Anne Frank**

 

Tiny fingers grasp upwards, the frilled edges of well-worn, soft material meet the inquisitive pads.The feeling is a familiar one, so is the gesture.Hazel eyes glance down at the small boy, stretching on tippy-toes, to tug at the frill of the apron.The glint in her eyes, matches the smile on her face.She knows the cue by-now, and bends to reach out for the child.With a swift swoop he is brought perch on the side-board, next to the sink.Slender, feminine _hands_ intertwine with those tiny fingers, and bring them gently to the warm water.The child hums in satisfaction as soon as his hands are immersed in the water.Even at a young age, cleanliness brings the boy a sense of gratification that cannot be surpassed.

 

******

 

It takes tremendous strength of will to hold the door tight shut, with knuckles of petite _hands_ turning white at the strain.Fingers twitch and vibrate at the sounds that reach his ears, sounds that he is unable to match precisely to actions, nor emotions.He’s been schooled since a young age.No matter what he hears, the door stays shut, and he is to remain inside the dark, featureless cupboard, until he is granted permission to leave.And what does he hear exactly?He hears desperation, not hope; pain not pleasure; constraint, not freedom; repulsion not desire.It is in the darkness of the cupboard where his optimism is borne, where the hunger for the fight begins.

 

******

 

Her _hands_ are cold.The warmth leached from them so quickly it took the boy’s breath away.Then they stiffened, fixed in a clasped position, that he could easily slip his own, smaller hand in and out of.The stiffness left suddenly, just like the warmth, and all he was left with was the coldness.They remained cold.It’s hard to know how many times the sun has passed across the sky – his life had always seemed to be plagued with the darkness of night – but he suspects many days have gone by, unnoticed. He sleeps intermittently, sometimes his own cold, clammy hand slips out of hers during his sleep.When a hand with a rough, calloused heat, replaces her cold one – and drags him, reluctantly, away from that place, away from her, from one place of darkness into another - little does he know that he’ll carry that coldness in his heart for many years to come.

 

******

 

The blade feels familiar in his _hands_.The bone handle is worn, and the flick-mechanism smooth, quick and virtually soundless.He’s found he can operate it without thinking, it’s become part of him.An accustomed appendage that shapes his life, an object that rules his world.The flash of silver metal, the wash of crimson blood pervades both his waking, and sleeping moments. The blade has become his only friend in the dark, of the Underground: the only thing he can rely on.It allows him to roam the streets without fear.It allows him to deal with problems as they arise.There are no threats in the Underground who aren’t conversant in the code of the blade.And when it is wielded by the protégé of the Ripper, few are willing to challenge that code.However, soon the protégé surpasses the master, and finally the tide begins to turn.

 

******

 

 

 

 


	2. Hands (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some short insights into Erwin's past

**Hands (Part 2)**

**Erwin**

_“Through you we learn to be invisible, through you inaudible, and hence we can hold the enemy’s fate in our hands”._

**Sun Tzu**

 

 

The boy feels cherished, sat in his father’s lap, helping him turn the pages of the book that between them they are cradling tenderly in their _hands_.His small fingers trace every word as he speaks them in tandem with his father.His voice is quieter, almost reverential in contrast to the deeper, solemn sounds that reverberates around his ears.The images are awe-inspiring.With each turn of the page, a fresh visual manages to assault his senses. Accompanying the printed narrative are his own fantastical stories, not spoken aloud, but kept to himself.Nurtured and cultivated, until they become part of his reality, and his destiny.As the years progress those stories prove to be the fuel that lights the fires within him.

 

******

 

Many of the faces that peer down at him are unfamiliar.They all hold the same expression, of solemnity, tainted with a hint of contempt.Hushed words of comfort and regret are spoken to her, but she is too overcome with grief to hear, or acknowledge them.Foreign _hands_ reach out to touch him: a firm grasp of the shoulder, a gentle pat on the back. He tries his upmost to remain stoic, his back fixed straight, his expression unyielding.He is a child, being thrust into the emotional pretence of adulthood, and he meets it with impassiveness.The complete opposite of his mother, whose childlike sorrow is palpable, her cries cutting through the stale air of the chapel like an irreparable wound. Only in private does he allow his ocean-blue eyes to well with tears, temporarily offering his heart - to grief, to fear, to guilt.

 

******

 

He is a paragon of discipline.Taking to his training with boundless enthusiasm, and utter conviction.Never deviating from his sole purpose, his goals fixed clearly and resolutely in his mind.He is a model cadet, and at the end of three years, everyone knows his name.He flies with complete precision.He trains until his muscles ache and his body screams for respite.His mind never wans though, never tires of knowledge, nor schemes, nor aspirations.He is destined for greatness – a new hope for mankind.And when he delivers his parting salute to his friend and mentor – his _hands_ automatically affixed in position - right fist over his steadily beating heart, left hand slung low across his back – his fate is sealed, he is ready to devote his all to humanity.

 

******

 

The candle burns dangerously low, threatening to plunge the room into further darkness – it allows just sufficient light to illuminate the cluttered desk space, but nothing beyond.His _hands_ are stained heavily with ink, so are the sleeves of his crumpled shirt – though he pays neither any mind.The map spread before him has been comprehensively annotated.Marked upon it are key target locations, squad formations, and strategic arrangements, areas which may offer protection, and those where danger is to be anticipated.He remains confident about his plans.And during his time accompanying his Commanding Officer to the Capital, he’s personally greased enough palms, and curried enough favour, to know he’ll have the backing of many nobles and their burgeoning purses, should he manage to advance his ideas further.His Commander though, is an unknown quantity – occasionally grateful of his Squad Leader’s acuity, occasionally irritated by it – perhaps fearful the younger man’s perspicacity surpasses his own. He’ll dedicate more time to his proposal, before he shares it with anyone.He’ll work day and night to achieve perfection, and will only sleep once his mission is complete.

 

******

 


	3. Hands (Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this final chapter has taken forever.  
> I'm not entirely happy with it, but it'll be Eruri Week 2019, if I don't get a wiggle-on and tackle the remaining prompts (which you'll be pleased to hear I've got lots of ideas for!)  
> Comments and feedback, as always, much appreciated.

 

**Day 4: Hands (Part 3)**

**Eruri: Erwin Smith & Levi Ackerman**

******

 

His _hands_ were clenched into fists; tight balls of pent-up fury hidden from view as he kneeled before this tall blonde soldier, and his even taller dog.He’d been blind-sided, intercepted as he’d attempted to evade capture, alongside his two disquiet companions.This immaculately turned-out device of the Corps had gotten the better of him – he’d flown against him with broad wings, unnerving confidence, and resolute purpose, and had taken him down.Levi always assumed he was free - free to act, free to take, free to control his own destiny – but a single encounter with Erwin Smith, and all his misconceptions had been unmasked, everything he’d built his reality on had crumbled before his eyes.He’d mistaken mastering the darkness and menace of the Underground for freedom.However, he was in truth, merely the equivalent of caged bird and he had in fact been imprisoned as such, since birth. For once in his life Levi wondered whether someone else could offer him what he truly desired. Could this man, this bastion of hope, with his sparkling blue eyes and his unwavering fealty to Humanity’s cause be his ticket to freedom?

 

******

 

Rage was burning through his veins.He flew heedlessly through the mists of steam and blood, and further through the persistent rain, which lashed at, and tormented his fury.But he was too late, there were few traces left of his cherished companions – a flash of an expressionless face with cold, dead eyes, a twisted and detached limb almost unidentifiable amidst the carnage, a sickening pool of congealed blood and bone turning the green earth red.In blind anger Levi cut decisively at the nape of their grotesque slaughterer as he wrestled to contain an onslaught of unfamiliar emotions - wrath and disbelief and anguish.He landed exhausted, amidst the visceral butchery, momentarily alone – the inevitability of his disconnectedness weighing heavily on his shoulders.The blonde appeared again, a vision emerging through the dark storm.He’d somehow become the perpetual omen of Levi’s disassembly.The raven-haired man reacted instinctively.A blade was swiftly unsheathed, unbending metal met fragile flesh – stormy grey fought against sky-blue, unwelcome words fused with internalised rage. _Hands_ moved to still the blade’s progress: a bold move, or a reckless one? Levi was far too spent, and lost in grief to decide, so he accepted his fate, and did so without regret.Did he yield during a rare moment of exposed weakness? Was his life now inexplicably linked to this personified symbol of Humanity’s hope? In that moment he couldn’t be certain.Though he caught himself wondering whether it truly mattered.

 

******

 

A fervent cleaning regime allowed Levi the peace and discipline to cope with his changed circumstances.Most days his _hands_ were raw and bleached from exposure to harsh chemicals.The stainlessness of his immediate environment contrasted vehemently with the culpability he held in his heart.He was the epitome of idiosyncrasy; an oddity, who struggled intensely to establish his position and status amongst his somewhat guarded and resentful peers.His distinctive, customised form of self-discipline was almost wholly incompatible with the schooled-obedience of the Corps members.The early days were challenging, solitary and fractious – training and cleaning became his anchor-points, and he continued to excel, and find consolation in both.A lone advocate justified his presence and gave merit to his evolvement, finally persuading Levi to liberate his guilt and offer up his heart to something greater.Erwin Smith the paragon of Humanity’s hope – who was held in reverence and followed devotedly in battle – became the custodian of Levi’s heart, and the ultimate source of Levi’s freedom.

 

******

 

Appraising eyes flowed the Raven as he flew between the trees, circling effortlessly, weightless, elegant.Petite, but devastatingly strong _hands_ gripped blades, reversed, poised, secure – no enemy spared from his calculating stare and coiled aggression.Watching Levi fly always left Erwin breathless, in awe.The fluent way he dispatched their foe was purely instinctive, though obviously borne from deeply held vengeance that only surfaced when he engaged his feeling-less adversaries.Levi fought with the strength of ten soldiers, the success of any Corps expedition beyond the walls had become contingent on the man’s proficiency.Any observer of that skill, accepted, without question, how this small incomer, from the Underground, had warranted the title ‘Humanity’s Strongest’.But to Erwin Smith Levi’s worth was counted, even above such an accolade: he was more, so much more.

 

******

 

Levi kept his tall, blonde Commander in his sights, as soon as they passed through the gates. Erwin was always the most visible amongst the returning Corps members, leading from the front, stiff-backed, seated high on his pure-white stallion, a stoic expression fixed on his typically handsome face, ignorant, and unmoving in light, of the unsolicited taunts, remaining ever courteous to the baying crowds – who chanted his name with equal venom and despair.His broad, solidly-fixed shoulders never sagged, though internally his chest must have heaved and ached as it carried the unnecessary burden of personal blame of their expedition failings, the weight of the sacrifice of every death occurring in the name of Humanity’s Freedom.His _hands_ remained still, clasping his horse’s reins with true conviction, as he led his regiment through the streets. His hands they never shook, never clenched, never betrayed his hard-concealed emotions – those of sorrow, of anger, of frustration, of regret. His dignity held aloft the reputation and sum achievements of the entire Corps – for his soldiers, he was their beacon of hope, but to the crowds he was nothing more than a misguided fool, a suicidal fool in fact, who lead men and women to their untimely deaths.Levi oft willed himself in those moments to be the might and source of Erwin’s strength, to stand as substitute for the blonde and be the reviled figure enduring the stony gazes and insults of the crowds.Levi longed to protect this man from the deep wounds of condemnation and injury he was forced to bare, every time they returned from hell.

 

******

 

Practised _hands_ made tea.A shared, nightly ritual, whilst two men met in pleasurable company, secreted away in the privacy of the Commander’s quarters.As a cup was passed, warm skin was inadvertently brushed, and cheeks involuntary, coloured pink in an uncontrolled, physical response, throats were cleared and the intensity of feelings ignored.It was impossible to pinpoint just when exactly their emotions had evolved thus, but they remained unspoken, unacknowledged – their shared, personal desires continually overlooked for the greater good.All too frequently, of an evening, the air in the Commander’s quarters became heady with unsated longing – one man moved to open a window to disperse the cloying atmosphere, whilst the other attempted to focus his concentration on the papers and maps laid before him. The tea was consumed in awkward silence – time served as the thief to their routinized encounters – stealing away all possibility and opportunity, rendering it moot.

******

 

One devastating instance of loss finally made the two men realise they were destined only to be whole, if they were together.However, that initial realisation and subsequent admission remained disconnected – still worlds apart.Erwin Smith, sat disfigured, his shirt-sleeve as hollow as his heart, his thoughts clouded by unrestrainable malaise, his continued functionality uncertain.His ever-present, bedside companion concealed anguish and indignation, masking it with the familiarity of acerbic words and surly scowls.Over time they discovered revised competencies, in union – learning to compensate for the absence of two practiced _hands_ , with the addition of two more, given freely, without judgement, or expectation.Any initial inelegance soon gave way to instinctiveness.The determination not to yield to adversity initiated a resurgence in fortitude.But left in its wake a vestigial regard that became habitualized in repeated actions of attentiveness. The path to their inevitable, and desirous unity - now fuelled by a formidable and unsurpassable momentum – was impatient for someone to take the first step.

 

******

 

He entered the Commander’s office, as he always did, unannounced and unprompted, but his presence was welcome all the same; familiar, comforting.He was afforded a cursory glance, as the occupant returned to fumble with the challenge of his shirt buttons.Levi swept through the room at a hurried pace, his _hands_ an instinctive addition to the task.Blue eyes, narrowed with apprehensiveness, they met steely-grey, wide and intense, radiating tolerance and unwavering devotion.A warm, though uncertain hand moved to cradle a soft, flushing cheek – and its recipient all but melted at the touch.Soon, lips collided and breaths hitched, as they came together, then pulled apart again, eyes carefully watching, waiting.Then they moved, just to hold each other, with _hands_ interlaced, bodies pressed tightly together.Contact they had long denied themselves became scaffold of their being, in that instance they became one. Their newly awakened synchronousness threatened to conquer lands and annihilate foes.

 

_“Your hand, touching mine, this is how galaxies collide”._

**Sanober Khan**


End file.
